What It Is Is A Dream
by ellamo
Summary: What it is is a spin 'round an old stretch of track In the skin that you're in and the clothes on your back


After Wilson quits and moves and changes his phone number, House is like a spinning top. No one's sure quite when and where and who he's gonna stop at on any given day, and he likes that. Likes that he's still unpredictable because it helps stave off the sympathetic looks that he wants so desperately not to get. His team scurries and scatters when they see him coming. They keep out of his way unless they're talking about a case. They're afraid of him, and he doesn't really blame them.

Most of the time, he stops at Cameron. He likes waiting in the ER lounge for her, likes being stretched out across the couch with a magazine open at quarter one in the morning when she comes in to change and go home. He likes the look of surprise and wariness on her face. The bleeding heart won't refuse him anything at first, and he plays it for all he can get until she starts to get frustrated. He tries to back off, not because he doesn't want her angry but because he's afraid she'll start reading deeper into the situation if he isn't careful. Not that there's anything to read.

Once in a while, he stops at Chase but Chase is even less fun now than he ever was before. He's less of a reverent follower and more of a jealous boyfriend, shooting House wounded looks at every turn. It gets old quickly.

Cuddy wants to be his best friend and confidante suddenly. He makes countless and repeated suggestions that she remove various items of clothing until her patience wears thin. He doesn't care if he makes her angry. In fact, he'd like it quite a lot if she just went back to rolling her eyes and nagging him to do his job.

One night Cuddy corners him as he's leaving and offers him dinner. He says no and she threatens his job if he doesn't and he gives in. Not that he thinks she'd really fire him, but a free meal is a free meal and he plans on ordering the most expensive thing on the menu. Later, outside the restaurant, she puts her hand on his arm and leans in really close, close enough that he can see a smudge of eyeliner and smell flowery perfume. She says something in a voice that is soft and sultry and something in her eyes send warning bells off in his mind. He abruptly walks away from her and their conversation.

He's angry and he doesn't really know why. He feels cheated. Not by Cuddy, but by life. He thinks of Amber and her icy stare and the way Wilson won't talk to him and he feels like he's going to be sick to his stomach.

That night he waits for Cameron and when she walks in the door, he sings, i"Allison, I know this world is killing you." /I

Maybe it's too appropriate for the moment. She is tired and there are blood spatters on her pink scrubs. A three year old died in her arms an hour ago. She drops onto the couch beside him and leans over and starts to cry.

"Hey," he says, jerking forward but not away. "Hey, I know my singing isn't that good-"

She laughs shakily. "It's not there. It's just... I can't..."

"Tell me about it." He says, and listens as the words spill out of her mouth. He shouldn't be here to see this moment. He shouldn't be seeing this. This goes beyond distracting himself from the fact that he's a friendless old crippled bastard. But she's here and he's here and her pain is sort of a distraction from his. He lets her talk until she's repeating herself and then says, "Okay, stop talking. Go change clothes, just, just throw those away."

She gets up and does what he says, moving almost mechanically. She opens her locker and pulls out an oversized gray sweatshirt. "This is Chase's," she says, and stares at it dumbly.

She's in shock, maybe, or just exhausted. He sighs in an overly dramatic way and pushes to his feet. He lets his cane rest against the locker and snatches the sweatshirt from his hand. "Off," he says, motioning her. She lifts the pink scrubs from her body and lets them drop to the floor.

Her hair is half out of the ponytail and her bra is lavender and there's a dime shaped bruise on her shoulder. None of that really matters, but he's just cataloging it all away anyway. He shakes out the sweatshirt and slides it over her head. The ponytail gets caught up in the thick material and falls to the floor.

She stumbles forward and little and rests her head against his shoulder.

"Come on," he says, feeling awkward. He puts his arms around her. Under his breath, he mumbles, "I am so not the person for this."

"Shut up," she halfway sobs, and then hugs him tightly. "Just, shut up and be a normal person, just for right now."

He nods even though she isn't looking and then presses his lips against the top of her head.

She laughs, says, "Oh," and looks up at him. Her face is splotchy and pale and damp, strands of hair sticking to her cheek. He pushes the hair away and then kisses her on the mouth, gentle pressure without the tingle of passion. He kisses her forehead and rubs his hand up and down her back. "I didn't think you'd actually..."

"Yeah, well." He says. "Pretend I didn't."

"Okay."

She pulls back a little and he instantly lets his hands fall to his side. He grabs his cane and walks toward the door, stepping around her. "Finish getting dressed, We're gonna go get drunk."


End file.
